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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26460697">These Things I’ve Never Known</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueapplesour/pseuds/blueapplesour'>blueapplesour</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Drugging, Equestrian, Everyone Needs A Hug, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mid-Time Skip, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn, Stitches, Touch-Starved, Vignette, awkward hair stage von aegir</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:47:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,631</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26460697</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueapplesour/pseuds/blueapplesour</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Take your own good advice, and leave me be. Unless you would like to try it yourself?”</p><p>There’s something absurdly hopeful in von Aegir’s eyes. </p><p>“Try what, letting you pet me?” He intends for it to come off as the mockery it is; instead, Ferdinand colors to his ears.</p><p>“The horses, Hubert,” Ferdinand replies, voice clipped and tight with propriety. “They’re very soothing.” </p><p>-<br/>A series of vignettes about touch and trust.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>254</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is a bitter, fast-drawing night of the Wyvern moon, the day’s battle behind them as soldiers settle into camp tents. Caspar’s voice carries even through the moss-wrapped trees, along with equally loud shushings that sound like Dorothea and Petra and the soft crackle of dying fires. </p>
<p>It is a very good thing it was a small skirmish, one easily won, Hubert thinks. Otherwise any enemy, no matter how idiotic, could find them. They’re still half-children, most of them- they’ve made the decision to follow, but have yet to learn fully what that means. Past school assignments, bloody as some were, have nothing on what their army is staring down. Battles are won with quick action and bold spirits, wars are won with endurance and nothing more. </p>
<p>They’ll become soldiers, or they’ll die. It's a formula as true as any magic he's ever studied. </p>
<p>One particularly irritating soldier has yet to make his way to camp. Hubert approaches the makeshift stable, horses herded between trees and kept there with a fence of scavenged rope and the vain hope they’ll stay with the ones who feed them.</p>
<p>He pauses for a moment to watch Ferdinand touch each one, lift their heavy hooves, run a hand down their long legs, his lips constantly moving, though Hubert can’t catch what is being said. When Ferdinand gets to one in particular he stops and begins to pick the snarls out of her mane, and Hubert feels compelled to interfere. This is a war camp, not a horse...salon, or whatever it is horses have. </p>
<p>“Why are you still here with the horses, Ferdinand? We break early in the morning.” </p>
<p><i>Why are you still here?</i> his mind echoes. Hubert never expected Ferdinand to follow Edelgard. He still half-expects to find him missing after every battle, run to noble exile or locking himself away under house arrest with the rest of his family in protest. </p>
<p>“Hm?” Ferdinand looks up from the mare, his woolen jacket now littered with faint gray hairs and dust. “What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“You should be resting.”</p>
<p>Ferdinand laughs, and other horses turn their heads, perhaps thinking it's a neigh. “Why Hubert, be careful, or someone may think you are concerned for my well being!” The mare nudges Ferdinand, petulant, and he brings his arm around her head in a pathetic display of affection. “I was only checking their feet again. No hoof, no horse, as they say, and we need them.”</p>
<p>That would be a practical enough answer, if he hadn’t just seen Ferdinand brushing the stupid beast’s hair.  </p>
<p>“Fine then, stay out here as you like.” This is already more than his necessary duty, and while Hubert won’t be indulging in the suggested rest, there are other things requiring his attention. </p>
<p>“I like petting them, I suppose.” Ferdinand runs a sheepish hand through his hair. It’s grown longer since they started the campaign, copper with a hint of curl now falling over his ears, constantly being tucked back. “And talking to them, reminding them that they are very good horses.” </p>
<p>How like Ferdinand to answer after Hubert has already decided the conversation is over. </p>
<p>How like Ferdinand to give an answer more fitting of an eight-year-old girl. His lips curls, remembering past words with his lady. That the soft von Aegir heir has no place in her new order. They could lock him up with his father. Throw him into the turbulent sea his former territory faces.  </p>
<p>But Edelgard had merely shaken her head.</p>
<p>
  <i>You of all people should be glad we don’t judge men by their fathers. We need him.</i>
</p>
<p>And he is grateful for him today, having seen him save Edelgard from the path of a Kingdom loyalist’s arrow. That is what the olive branch of his current presence and pretense of concern means, not that Ferdinand is bright enough to pick up on it. “You like...petting them.” </p>
<p>Ferdinand turns back to the mare, running a hand over her neck again. “After a day of slaughter, it is simply nice to touch something alive, and I believe they appreciate it. That is all.” He juts out his chin, as if expecting argument. “I do not expect nor need you to understand.”</p>
<p>“I don’t.” The horses are tools of war, not pets. Like tools, they'll end the war with fewer of them than they started with; sentimentality has no place here. “Like I said, you’d do better to rest.” </p>
<p>“Take your own good advice, and leave me be. Unless you would like to try it yourself?”</p>
<p>There’s something absurdly hopeful in von Aegir’s eyes. </p>
<p>“Try what, letting you pet me?” He intends for it to come off as the mockery it is; instead, Ferdinand colors to his ears.</p>
<p>“The horses, Hubert,” Ferdinand replies, voice clipped and tight with propriety. “They’re very soothing.” </p>
<p>“I have a healthy respect for both their service to Lady Edelgard and the size of their teeth. More is not required. I might as well tell your lance it is a very good lance, it would have the same amount of understanding.” </p>
<p>“He does not mean that, my beautiful lady,” Ferdinand turns back to the mare, letting her nuzzle at his palm. “Come, give her a pat and make friends.”</p>
<p>Hubert is not sure why he sticks his hand out to let the mare sniff it. He can ride in the sense that he can stay on a horse, as any noble can, and has a basic understanding of what is required to keep one of the creatures alive. He knows a bit more about pegasi, but the basics are the same. If this creature had feathers, she'd be much prettier.</p>
<p>“Now pet her neck, like so.” Ferdinand strokes the her gently, a scratch under the mane that she stretches into. </p>
<p>Hubert gives her two perfunctory taps with the tips of his gloved fingers. “There, the horse has been pet, now...”</p>
<p>“Oh for the saints, Hubert.” Ferdinand takes his hand and places it against the horse. </p>
<p>Hubert stares at the juxtaposition of Ferdinand’s battle-shaky hand on his gloved one, tanned skin pressing softly on black leather. Somewhere in the battle or the fall Ferdinand bashed his knuckles, now scraped raw and rimed with dried blood. His fingertips slip between Hubert’s where they’ve fallen slightly open. </p>
<p>Hubert can’t remember the last time someone touched him without the intent to kill, and something unfamiliar and unwelcome curls along his spine. He wants to move his hand. He can’t. </p>
<p>“She came from the Aegir stables,” Ferdinand says softly as the mare flicks an ear at them and Hubert barely hears over the sudden pounding of blood in his ears, sharp as any battle adrenaline. “Her name is Tatyana, though her current rider apparently calls her Dove, which I suppose suits her as well.” </p>
<p>It’s the closest Hubert has heard Ferdinand come to complaining about his fall from grace. There are no more Aegir stables because for all intents and purposes there is no more Aegir; the lands have been seized, anything useful to the army distributed, anything not sold off to fatten the war coffers. </p>
<p>He hasn’t told Ferdinand how his father cried over losing the family’s legacy silver and never once asked after his son.  </p>
<p>With a sigh Hubert lets Ferdinand guide his hand in a soft swipe along the horse’s coat. Tatyana Dove von Aegir, a most ungrateful nag, reaches around to nip his leg. </p>
<p>“You are going to be <i>glue</i>...” Hubert hisses, though he knows he deserves it. Perhaps she sensed his opinion on her lack of wings.</p>
<p>“Hubert, please!” Ferdinand laughs, a sound that yanks him from the aftermath of battle and places him somewhere tilted and warm. “She only thinks you have treats. The innocent soul and has no idea just how miserly you are.” </p>
<p>A carrot is thrust into his hand and removed by the horse before he even fully registers its presence. </p>
<p>“See?” Ferdinand continues as she chews peacefully, and cicadas trill in the twilight behind them. “No harm done.” </p>
<p>“Hm.” The mare pushes at Hubert again, this time sans teeth. He runs a hand along the length of her nose, scratches at her cheek as she leans into him. She is solid, her huffing breaths warm. </p>
<p>It is...not bad, he supposes. </p>
<p>He can practically feel Ferdinand smiling beside him, humming with his boundless enthusiasm even when silent.</p>
<p>Of course, he doesn't stay silent for long. </p>
<p>“See now! You have made a friend, and I am also very pleased. Perhaps we can say you have made two friends.” </p>
<p>Hubert withdraws his hand with a snap, the familiarity hitting cold. “You overstep, Ferdinand.” </p>
<p>The light in Ferdinand’s amber eyes dims slightly, and his brows narrow. “My apologies. I momentarily mistook you for someone else. It will not happen again.” </p>
<p>It is a more appropriate look for a man who has killed today. It is certainly an expression an expression more familiar to Hubert, though he bites off a response to the challenge as something small and guilty twists in his gut. They are allies now, not schoolboys. He can find the man irritating to his bones; as fun as it is to needle him, perhaps there are better times. "Good night, Ferdinand." </p>
<p>Ferdinand turns back to his horse, and Hubert makes his way back to the camp, flexing lingering warmth out of his hand. If later, Dove finds her way transferred to Ferdinand's battalion, it is merely a tactical decision. If she occasionally finds herself being passed an extra carrot, that is also tactical; well fed horses win wars.</p>
<p>If seeing Hubert with the horse makes Ferdinand smile, that is neither here nor there. And if Hubert's mind occasionally drifts to the image of a bloodied hand pressed against his, bright warmth on a dread autumn night, that is nothing at all.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Dose Makes the Poison</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ferdinand might die in this war.</p>
<p>It is a thought Hubert has had often, bringing with it at first some grim satisfaction, the thought of such a scion of the old order broken under his lady’s command. </p>
<p>He isn’t sure when it became less of a hope and more of a fear.</p>
<p>CW: wounds and stitches, consensual drugging</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The water-slick walls of the cave echo with Ferdinand’s pained breaths. “I do not suppose,” the general gasps, “you have a vulnerary on your person?”</p>
<p>“Smashed.” Hubert is not used to warping with the weight of two people. It was lucky his sigil still carried them to this hideout, even with the burden and slightly manic casting as tried to tell whose blood was dripping. Not his, as it turned out. “Consider this an appropriate price for doubting me.” </p>
<p>“I did not doubt you, Hubert. I merely thought I could assist, it was an ambush...”</p>
<p>An ambush that came in numbers, and now their noblest knight was bleeding onto gritty dirt and old animal filth. </p>
<p>“Let me get light and have a look.” </p>
<p>“Light?” </p>
<p>“Are you asking a question, or is your mind going? There’s wood, and I can still cast.,” Hubert surveys the provisions, everything exactly as he has prepared, allows himself a small satisfaction. “There’s a water skin as well, if it hasn’t gone rank.”</p>
<p>“You knew this was here?” </p>
<p>Of course the daft cavalier had no clue as to what a miracle of magic it was. “I’ve keyed warp sigils to multiple safe spots. The spell’s range is limited, both in distance and to places I know. Therefore I endeavor to know places.” </p>
<p>That preparation makes the fire quick work, but Ferdinand has stopped talking. A glance shows him still conscious, pressing a palm to his mangled thigh as he watches Hubert. </p>
<p>“Show me,” Hubert says when there is light enough, crouching next to him. Ferdinand peels his hand away with another soft cry.     </p>
<p>The blow was delivered by a poorly-tended sword. Flesh has been clawed from Ferdinand’s thigh, leaving a mess of red and white and yellow between strips of hopelessly torn fabric. There is already small puddle of crimson drops seeping into the undamaged part of the cloth.</p>
<p>“Well,” Ferdinand says as they both stare at something that looks considerably worse than expected. “I suppose you will have to stitch it.”</p>
<p>His voice has taken on a dreamy quality with blood loss, and perhaps that excuses the absurdity of the statement.</p>
<p>“With what, unless you carry embroidery onto the battlefield? I’ll cut some of our clothing and wrap it as I can.” </p>
<p>“Check my side bag, you’ll find supplies.”</p>
<p>Surely enough, alongside a hoofpick and the glint of a signet ring Hubert ignores, was coarse thread and a needle. “Why?”</p>
<p>Ferdinand laughs, though his wince makes it clear he regrets it. “I put a living creature in front of sharp weapons, Hubert. They occasionally come out worse for it.”</p>
<p>Hubert washes the wound as best he can, and threads the needle, though it takes a few tries, and Ferdinand’s breaths turn shallow as the seconds pull on. He places his hands on Ferdinand’s leg, one on each side of the wound to gauge the size. He is more used to taking bodies apart than attempting to put them back together. “I trust you will stay still?” </p>
<p>“Perfectly.” </p>
<p>That assurance is lost as the needle takes its first bite of flesh, Ferdinand’s whole body flinching as the stitch pulls tight. </p>
<p>“You said you’d stay <i>still</i>.” </p>
<p>“Give me something to bite,” Ferdinand begs, eyes focused on the ceiling, words coming through clenched teeth.  </p>
<p>Hubert pulls off a glove, already blood-splattered, but no worse than they already were, and shoves it into Ferdinand’s mouth, glad that the man is too far gone with pain to see his magic-darkened fingers. The faint tingle still running through them, the heat of skin held a shade too close to a fire, chastens him. Ferdinand wouldn’t realize, but the man who had stabbed him had been obliterated with enough Dark Spikes to fell a cavalry unit.</p>
<p>It had been instinctive, and stupid. </p>
<p>Centimeter by patient centimeter, flesh is rejoined and Hubert’s nerves are frayed with concentration. He wasn’t injured, but he is no less exhausted, and keeping his hands the still of a surgeon draws from a well of effort.</p>
<p>“Almost done,” he says, sewing another piece of torn flesh. Ferdinand gags around the cloth in his mouth, sweat, perhaps tears, dripping off his face. Hubert knows he should say more, distract him, but he can only focus on the task before him, making his entire world a wound. After minutes or years, he loops off and ties the thread, his hand finally giving into a sharp cramp now that the work is done. Ugly black lines cross puffy red skin, and the lacing is not elegant, but it has stopped the blood. Ferdinand spits out the damp glove with a shudder.</p>
<p>“Saints, I know you have no particular talent for Faith, but would it have killed you to pick up one simple healing spell?” </p>
<p>If he felt up to an argument, the pain endorphins must be kicking in.</p>
<p>“Very possibly.” Hubert rubs his tired hands, tries not to think of the long night ahead. “Go to sleep before you feel worse, Ferdinand. You won’t be much use on watch.” </p>
<p>Ferdinand takes that as an insult to his person, because of course he does. “Even if I cannot move quickly, I can wake you should something happen. You fought as well, you should also be able to sleep.”</p>
<p>But Ferdinand winces even as he speaks. He can stay up, but he’ll be in pain the whole time. </p>
<p>“I’m well accustomed to being up all night. Sleep now, and you’ll be able to move faster tomorrow. That will be the bigger help.”</p>
<p>“But what if we are attacked?”</p>
<p>“I scouted this place because it is secluded, and the entrance is small and easy for a single person to defend.”</p>
<p>Ferdinand makes a small sound of admiration. “Well, you do think of everything.”</p>
<p>Hubert removes anything questionable from the pockets and spreads his cloak on the ground, at least providing a barrier. “There, sleep on that.”</p>
<p>Ferdinand looks dubious, though he moves to sit on it, keeping his injured leg long and still. “That is very noble of you.”</p>
<p>“Not in the least. It is simply logical to want to keep a valuable general in fighting shape.” </p>
<p>Ferdinand’s cheeks color in the firelight. He lays down, each movement small and careful, nothing at all like his powerful abandon on the battlefield. </p>
<p>Ferdinand might die in this war.</p>
<p>It is a thought Hubert has had often, bringing with it at first some grim satisfaction, the thought of such a scion of the old order broken under his lady’s command. </p>
<p>He isn’t sure when it became less of a hope and more of a fear. They were all weapons in the empire’s arsenal, and Ferdinand a whetstone that sharpened him with every argument and insight. Sometimes he even welcomed the bombastic speeches von Aegir had never quite grown out of; there were worse things on a day surrounded by familiar corpses than to let Ferdinand’s optimism take the lead and indulge in the delusion they were at a turning point and not a backslide. </p>
<p>There will be no more speeches tonight. The general’s face is as pale as the ash flickering through the air. His eyes are shut, but his careful breathing is a study in false signals; there is no peace there.</p>
<p>“Ferdinand?”</p>
<p>Those amber eyes open again, over-bright with pain. “Did I say something?”</p>
<p>“You didn’t have to.”</p>
<p>Now Ferdinand does let out a groan. “Every time I move, every time I <i>swallow</i> I feel that damn blade slice again. My leg is on fire.”</p>
<p>“Nerve damage, most likely. Linhardt is a talented healer, he can repair it. You need to rest and let it heal what it can.” Faint comfort for a man sweating in agony, but it’s what he can offer.</p>
<p>The sound Ferdinand makes is the most undignified thing Hubert has ever heard come out of him. “Knock me out.”</p>
<p>“Excuse me?” Was he actually being given permission to deck Ferdinand von Aegir? </p>
<p>“Chemicals, magic, anything, just knock me out. You are right that I am useless at present, and I do not want to spend the whole night staring at a dark ceiling wishing my leg to be chopped off. If I rest now, perhaps I can walk tomorrow.”</p>
<p>Unlikely, but an admirable thought. “Are you very sure?”</p>
<p>“Perfectly.”</p>
<p>He always is. </p>
<p>“Then you are in luck.” Hubert drips chemicals onto the handkerchief he keeps for that purpose. “It won’t be fast, and it won’t be pleasant.”</p>
<p>“It will not be worse,” Ferdinand counters, and even Hubert has to agree.</p>
<p>“Sit up.” Hubert takes the handkerchief and moves to kneel behind the now-seated Ferdinand, fitting hand and cloth tightly over the other man’s mouth. “If you change your mind, hit my leg.” </p>
<p>They’re pressed tightly enough together that he can feel the faint echo of Ferdinand’s heart, and the other man makes a muffled sound, not quite words, against the cloth as Hubert clamps down. A part of him wishes the other man would struggle, as if that would somehow make it less awkward than the way he simply falls into Hubert’s arms. “Breathe deep, von Aegir. It will go faster.” </p>
<p>Instead, Ferdinand hits his leg. Good to his word, Hubert removes his hand.</p>
<p>“Honestly, Hubert, if you had the ability to render me unconscious, why did you not do so when you were performing surg...”</p>
<p>Hubert returns the cloth to Ferdinand’s mouth. If his grip is a little tight and annoyed, it is barely worth noticing. “If you must know, it was preferable to have you awake to tell me if anything was going wrong. And this also requires my full attention. I am poisoning you, the difference to my usual work is only the dose. So kindly shut up.”    </p>
<p>Ferdinand makes another choked noise but doesn’t give the signal to stop again. It’s practically obscene how close they, with Ferdinand’s back against his chest and the hand not covering his mouth locked across the cavalier’s broad torso. Ferdinand grows languid as the seconds tick on, and Hubert’s hand follows as Ferdinand’s head tilts backwards. The other man is now resting against his shoulder, lips slack, throat exposed. The blood loss has the work done more quickly than expected.   </p>
<p>“Dizzy?” he asks, and gets a small nod. “Cold?” Another nod, slower. “This will lower your temperature quite a bit. I will keep you by the fire and stay beside you.”</p>
<p>He belatedly realizes he has damned himself to a night of <i>cuddling</i> von Aegir. Ferdinand spasms suddenly, a hooked-fish jerk of his head, but if it’s the same realization and ensuing regret, he’s too far gone to signal. </p>
<p>“No need to struggle, you are perfectly safe.” If safety and a member of house Vestra could ever coincide. “I have you.”</p>
<p>Ferdinand’s eyes are fully shut now, long lashes heavy on cheeks tanned and freckled by hours marching under the sun of the Verdant Rain Moon. Hubert watches the warm firelight play on his skin, the slow rise and fall of his chest, glow disguising war-weariness with cast gold. </p>
<p>Watching for medical reasons, he assures himself. He maneuvers them to the ground, keeping Ferdinand against him. It is all awkward movement and too many limbs; the man is heavy, and there is his injury to mind besides. </p>
<p>He hasn’t held anyone as they slept since Edelgard had returned to him with white hair and haunted eyes, and that had only been once. He had spent many nights in her room, of course, and they let people whisper as they would, but those nights were never peaceful, full of plans sharp as the knives they planned to drive into the belly of corruption. </p>
<p>This shouldn’t be peaceful, either. But this isn’t the camp, with its ceaseless buzz and thunder of shouting and snoring and all the infuriating sounds anxious humans in too-close proximity make. There is only the domestic crackle of fire, an owl call in the distance, the quiet breathing of the man lying against him.  </p>
<p>Hubert cannot sleep, not with Ferdinand vulnerable. But, he is surprised to find, he can rest.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Shine a Light</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Candlelight gleams in windows looking onto the empty streets of the freshly-conquered town. Bits of snow drift through Ethereal Moon air, coating bloody footprints and adding a peaceful illusion to what hours before had been a fray. It could hardly be called a battle; a few dozen militia deaths, quick surrender. Inns and homes had been commandeered to house the army’s more important soldiers for a few nights of recuperation, and while laying a head down in the home of a freshly beaten enemy might have drawbacks, these winter-hungry farmers were hardly a threat. The Imperial Banner now hanging in the town square hasn’t even been spit at.</p><p>Still, something about the night has Hubert’s feet itching, or perhaps it's the company. Ferdinand von Aegir, in his room, saints only knew why. “What, not going to celebrate?” Caspar and Petra had run off to find what liquors were available, and Dorothea was currently lounging in the closest thing the town had to a manor with Lady Edelgard. For once there was rest and wine, if Ferdinand wished.</p><p>Fedinand’s lip curls. “I do not delude myself. They see us as conquerors, not liberators, they only surrender because they lack the resources to fight.”</p><p>“Conquerors get to enjoy their spoils, do they not?” <i>Enjoy them away from me</i>, he finishes, though there is far less bite to it than there would have been three years ago. He is simply tired. Moving from battle from battle, adrenaline kept his blood pumping and his feet and casting hands quick. It was easy to borrow strength from a theoretical future self; much harder when that theoretical self is present and already drained. Everything aches, from his teeth to his shins to his nail beds.</p><p>Ferdinand apparently suffers from no such weariness, his jaw is moving the same as always. “I intend to take my role beside Edelgard. If I am to help govern, I will not have them remember that their prime minister asked them to serve him drinks before they could even bury their loved ones.” He tucks a lock of copper hair behind an ear. “I do not see you out among the people.”</p><p>Hubert stretches out on the lumpy bed, and closes his eyes. “I have other priorities. We will move on soon enough.”</p><p>If only.</p><p>The decision to rest had been one of practicality and morale. But Faerghus was not Adrestia, and the weather itself resented empire intrusion. By morning the flakes had turned to piles, bitter winds pushing more against doors and windows. The militia still in tents were hastened to overtaken homes and shops; Hubert himself had lost his single room to Ferdinand. </p><p>It would have been tolerable for a night. But the snow keeps piling, the days shortening, and five days in Ferdinand’s tolerance for sitting around doing nothing is waning. If Hubert suffers from attrition of strength from overexertion on the battlefield, Ferdinand suffers from the lack of exertion at all.</p><p>“Teach me magic.” </p><p>Hubert looks up from over his tome, where Ferdinand is filling the small space between them with steps and sighs. “Why.” It could have been followed by “should I” or “do you want to learn?” </p><p>“Because I have nothing else to do and no space to practice lancework and I have already repaired every bit of armor anyone has. I have washed every dish in this inn, I have taught the innkeeper’s daughter to waltz, I have learned a few fascinating things about pig breeding from the local swineherd…”</p><p>“Sounds like you have been doing well if your goal is to endear yourself to the public.” Hubert’s turns back to the page, but the pacing figure out of the corner of his eye jerks his focus away with each swivel or flash of hair.</p><p>“If I am endearing myself it is only an added bonus, they are very kind people. But I am <i>bored</i>. And if I know some spellwork, I will only be more useful to our army, would you not agree? Imagine, approaching preparing for a lance attack, only to suddenly be lit aflame!” </p><p>He will not snap at this bait, Hubert tells himself, turning an unread page. “You say it as if you know you’ll be able to do it. I don’t recall you taking a single unit of faith or reason at school.”</p><p>“Our professor had us focus on our strengths, and between you and Dorothea and Linhardt, we are hardly lacking in a mage force. But I see no reason that I would not be able to learn.”</p><p>Of course he doesn’t. “Ask Dorothea. She is more than capable of providing instruction in Reason, and I believe she hates you marginally less than she used to.”</p><p>“So do you.” He’s smiling as he says it, and Hubert tries not to look at that, either. “I think. And you’ve read that three times already. Even I could probably recite it by now.”</p><p>With a heavy sigh, Hubert closes the book. At the very least Ferdinand’s failure promises to be amusing.</p><p>“Very well, but outside. If you catch yourself on fire at least you’re surrounded by snow I can shove you in.”</p><p>There is a wide clearing behind the inn where travellers would park wagons and carts in better seasons. Now it is a thick white field, ready for a sorcerer’s performance. It will do, but Ferdinand’s current state will not. “What are you going to do about your hair?”</p><p>“My hair?” Ferdinand touches it, curls a bit around his fingers. “What about it?” His voice is sharp, defensive...perhaps self-conscious.</p><p>“I am electing to humor your delusion that you will be able to produce magic, but I will not go so far as to believe you will have control of it. You could light yourself on fire, blow it in your face…”</p><p>“Dorothea’s hair is longer than mine, and she manages. So is Linhardt’s, for the record.”</p><p>Hubert hums and takes the length of it in hand, giving an experimental tug. Ferdinand gasps.</p><p>“Did I hurt you?” Hubert quickly ties back the thick waves with the scrap of ribbon he’d been using as a bookmark. He didn’t need it; Ferdinand was right he’d already read it so many times.</p><p>“Um. No.” Ferdinand’s cheeks are dusted pink under his darker freckles as he touches the hair Hubert has just arranged, a few tendrils escaping as if loosened by seeking hands. Hubert takes the image, places it in a mental box, and stores it in a drawer labeled “to be ignored.</p><p>He coughs. “Shall we start?”</p><p>As soon as they start, Hubert wants to finish.</p><p>Hubert traces sigils in snow as Ferdinand tries to follow, the air around them crackling with impotent, unfocused magic. The thrum of latent power on his skin, unharnessed and seeking, makes Hubert slightly nauseous. Ferdinand does not seem to notice. This doesn’t bode well for his casting success.</p><p>“I don’t understand why it’s not working.” Ferdinand takes a petulant step backwards, bumping Hubert with an absent-minded apology.</p><p>“Let’s try something else.” Hubert turns Ferdinand and stands behind him, those loose hairs now brushing the stubble of his unshaven cheek. When had Ferdinand gotten so tall? Hubert can still look down on him, but it requires an irritating crick of the neck. He reaches around to slide his hand under Ferdinand’s, forearm resting under forearm, palm supporting a now-shaking hand. His fingertips trace the underside of Ferdinand’s own, a whisper more than a touch, and a small flame hovers.</p><p>“I did it!” Ferdinand exclaims, then instantly deflates before Hubert can admit it. “You did it.” </p><p>Hubert steps back; for a moment the winter air had felt like Adrestian summer, and the air between them is painfully empty. “You don’t have to be good at everything.”</p><p>“But I do.” Ferdinand rubs his fingers, as if he can spark a fire from nervous friction alone. “A noble cannot allow himself to accept weakness, and it simply will not do to lack a basic understanding of even part of our forces. I have been remiss, I see that now.”</p><p>He is frowning, a crease between his brows, and Hubert crosses his arms. There is no shame in a general unparalleled in equestrian skills and lance, who is more than capable with an axe and has hopped on a wyvern on occasion, being unable to wield reason. And yet Ferdinand looks ready to self-flagellate over the perfectly understandable failure.</p><p>In lieu of comfort, he offers: “Edelgard can’t swim.”</p><p>“What?” That at least shifts Ferdinand’s expression to puzzlement. “But I am a wonderful swimmer.”</p><p>“Of course you are, you grew up in Aegir. But she is not.” A childhood visit to the ocean ended up with him carrying her on his back out of water that was only waist-deep, and a solemn promise never to speak of it again.</p><p>The general clucks his tongue. Now his cheeks are pink from the exertion and the chill, and it’s still too pretty to properly contemplate. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you criticize her.”</p><p>“It’s no criticism. I myself have no skill with an axe, or healing talent. No one can do everything.” The air is biting at his nose now, and he turns to go. But Ferdinand remains steadfastly in place.</p><p>“You’ve given me much to think about, Hubert. Thank you.” His voice is soft, but there is steel beneath it.</p><p>Hubert’s sigh is a cloud of white between them. “Will you come in, then? I suppose if you ask politely I’ll let you look at my books, perhaps you can gain a more solid understanding of theory.” </p><p>“No.” Ferdinand has turned back to the sigils in the snow, studying them with all the attention he devotes to tactical maps and horse care. “I’d like to stay out a bit.”</p><p>“You’ll freeze.” </p><p>Ferdinand glances back over his shoulder, smile bright, though his jaw is clenched. “I suppose I will just have to make a fire.” </p><p>#</p><p>Hubert is dozing when the door opens. He starts to say something, to scold Ferdinand for his stubbornness, when the candle on the bedside table flares to life, casting warm gold on wood, pale light on Ferdinand’s too-pale skin. </p><p>It is nothing that would be useful on a battlefield, but it is not nothing.</p><p>Ferdinand stalks to his bed and pulls off slush-drenched boots. “Good night, Hubert,” he says, voice stiff with cold, tired with exhaustion and relief. Hubert waits for the next part, the challenge that surely Ferdinand will soon rival him in magical skill, or that he has now shown more dedication to magic than Lady Edelgard has to swimming.</p><p>There is only the sound of a tired man shivering in the dark, and Hubert closes his eyes again. He doesn’t blow out the candle.</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. New Wounds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Better than him realizing that his fellow soldier is in love with him. It is something Hubert only allows himself to examine in rare, private moments, like a jewel from the Imperial collection only brought out on special occasions and under heavy guard.</p>
<p>No, a jewel is something beautiful. This is more a self-inflicted wound kept hidden, a scab he keeps scratching at to watch it bleed in disgust and fascination.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The monastery is so quiet that the steady scratch of pen nib heavy on paper fills the night, each stroke a crest beast’s claw down Hubert’s back. Each flick of his wrist brings forth the name of one of the four dead mages now lying on a charred plain west of Remire. </p>
<p>They were his battalion; his responsibility. Had they lived, it would have been on him to give their commendations. As it was, the duty before him is to offer those words to their families, in the impossible hope they will compress the bleed of grief.</p>
<p>Hubert does not allow himself sentimentality over the casualties of war. The number of the dead is inconsequential in the greater plan. But as years drag on, it is not a hundred in the sink of a war galleon, a thousand in the sacking of a city. To those he is writing to, it is one and one and one and one, each an immeasurable loss. Fallon. Aldritch. Caldwell. Gisela. Each one hand-selected for the sorcery engineers, as if Hubert himself had placed the target on their robes before throwing them in the line of fire.</p>
<p>Smoke trembles at his fingertips. The whole pile threatens to go up in a cloud of miasma turned molten by loathing and rage. As if there is some power in destroying the notices, as if it could erase the losses. </p>
<p>“Hubert.” </p>
<p>He turns from the pile of letters to see Ferdinand in the doorway, his arms full of rolled papers. His hair falls to his shoulder blades now, tangled waves half-hiding the sickly yellowing bruise on his jaw, remnants of an encounter with a brawler. The mark is like a spot of rot on an otherwise perfect piece of market fruit.</p>
<p>It has in no way stopped Ferdinand from using his jaw, however. </p>
<p>“You should be resting.” He walks forward and drops his load; one worn scroll unrolls to reveal an old topography map, the ink flaking. “You barely walked off that battlefield.” </p>
<p>He charitably doesn’t mention that it was Ferdinand himself who saved him, galloping to block a fresh volley of arrows after the first one sent Hubert wounded and down. </p>
<p>Too late for the others. </p>
<p>Hubert shakes his head, tries to shake the memory of Aldricht’s screams with it. The throb in his leg is nothing, and his blood will replenish in time. “I have to write the families.” </p>
<p>Ferdinand doesn’t say that he should delegate the task, merely sits and sets to his own work as Hubert turns back to his letters. It’s one of his more admirable qualities, that willingness to put his hand on whatever needs to be done. What morale is left is in large part due to Ferdinand’s tireless outreach in the armies, ensuring no unit’s needs are forgotten. If he treats their new country with half as much consideration, he will be a fine prime minister indeed.</p>
<p>Hubert has been reflecting on Ferdinand’s admirable qualities often of late, and when the other man gives him a quizzical look, he realizes he’s been staring. </p>
<p>“I thought I would review what happened,” Ferdinand says, as if Hubert had asked. “Review our tactics, so we do not suffer similarly again.”</p>
<p>Hubert pushes the letters aside and turns, steepling his fingers. “Show me the maps.”  </p>
<p>The table is soon a mess of papers and tokens, pushed around to represent soldiers and encampments. There is a scattering of oats Ferdinand inexplicably had in his pocket in lieu of horses, little vials of poison standing upright to represent kingdom generals (safely stoppered, Hubert assures Ferdinand when he protests). Edelgard is now the Aegir signet ring, a fact Hubert will not mention when he relays this.</p>
<p>The theoreticals are a little like chess, a little like a child’s dollhouse, a little like the push and pull of every argument they have ever had. They push their makeshift armies across the map, talking through skirmishes, offering options, trying to find any route to victory. The best thing to do in a battle is win. The second best thing is to learn so you do not lose a second time.</p>
<p>Because that’s what Hubert wants. If they can piece together a winning scenario, and “if and if and if” that does not leave half his corps dead, it will feel less hopeless. He would never suggest withdrawing, or that any life should be spared on the way to his lady’s victory- even his own life has long been forfeit in that regard. But saying life shouldn’t be spared is not the same as saying it should be wasted.  </p>
<p>Though the hours grow long and their tempers shorter, Ferdinand does not say they should give it up, to go to bed, not even when the candle has burned to a glimmering puddle and been replaced, not when the window shines dim violet then a gold that crowns him. </p>
<p>Instead he leans back on two legs of his chair feet kicked on the table. “Let us go back to before the battle itself. The reason our patrol failed was the winds, and if we’d been able to get riders aloft we would have had a better overview. I’ve heard Almyrans have trained some wyverns to scout solo and bypass the problem.”</p>
<p>They have clearly been up to long if Ferdinand wants to place his faith in Almyran old wives’ tales.</p>
<p>“I’ll agree the winds certainly played a role, our fliers and archers should also train in such conditions.” Linhardt could perhaps be persuaded to lend his spellwork to the range. Hubert has a few tomes that might serve as a suitable bribe.</p>
<p>Ferdinand hums agreement, then draws a line down the ridge where the kingdom army had approached. “Our primary mistake was letting them get any high ground in the first place.” </p>
<p>“By far,” Hubert nods, blinking to keep the map in focus. “But we would have had to make a southern approach to take it first, which would have meant forging the river, or taking the time to build bridges. Not to mention the supplies.”  </p>
<p>Supplies. Ferdinand is already ahead of him.</p>
<p>“What if supply boats were redirected to act as temporary pontoon bridges when necessary? It would require stricter measurements of rationing, but would allow more flexibility if faced with a similar terrain issue in the future.”</p>
<p>The supply boats are small and swift, trading cargo space for the likelihood of making a trip without presenting a large target. “I could see that working.” It makes him feel slightly less helpless, and he nods as he pushes away from the table. “I shall suggest it to Lady Edelgard.” </p>
<p>“Brilliant.” Ferdinand rises with him. The triumph in his eyes is muted, but at least it is there.  </p>
<p>But Hubert cannot leave yet. His eyes fall back on the unfinished letters, his final words on lives sacrificed on his orders. </p>
<p>For a moment he thinks Ferdinand is simply falling in exhaustion, but the other man’s arms catch Hubert around the waist and then they are body to body. “We will make an empire worthy of their memories, Hubert.” At this not-distance Ferdinand’s words are soft breath on his neck. “I promise.”</p>
<p>“What are you doing?” Hubert’s pulse is quick, breath shallow and muscles tensed, ready for the slice of a knife in his back. </p>
<p>But Ferdinand would never. If he were going to try to kill Hubert, it would be nobly to his face, and the thought allows him to breathe and the knot inside his chest to unclench. Cautiously he raises a hand and places it on Ferdinand’s back. The other man is warm against his palm, and he can feel the faint thrum of his heart.  </p>
<p>The cavalier sighs against him, and there are years of fatigue in the weight of him. They’re not the same men who started this war, and they have yet to become the men who can end it. “When similar happened to me, this is what I wanted. There was no one. So, for what it is worth, I am here.”</p>
<p>Hubert remembers. It was only six months into the campaign and the cavalry was ambushed; six men and ten horses downed. Hubert had heard something break in Ferdinand’s tent later that night, hadn’t bothered entering. Ferdinand would be gone or dead soon.</p>
<p>But he is here. Here, still standing with Lady Edelgard against the entire system that molded him, planning for a brighter world. Here, ruddy and sleepless, with Hubert. </p>
<p>Hubert does not want things save the general success of his lady. He does not love things, again save his lady, because they do not last, they do not stay, they cannot love him back. With Edelgard, it simply does not matter (though if pressed he would admit that she does, in fact, love him, no matter how he has tried to dissuade her). </p>
<p>He can have this candle flame of a moment, something that can be cupped for fleeting warmth in this liminal space of not-quite night, but it is nothing. Better to be the one to snuff it.</p>
<p>“We are not the same, von Aegir,” he says, snatching his hand back and stepping away. He feels his face contort, and by Ferdinand’s reaction it must approach a sneer. It feels like a scramble to bury something, and quickly.</p>
<p>“And that is good.” Ferdinand’s laugh is broken and awkward, his cheeks flushed with high color. “Edelgard does not require a second dour presence. I suppose I shall take my leave and catch what sleep I can. If you are all right?” </p>
<p>What would happen if he were to simply say “yes, I would like you to stay,” admit to the revolting fact that he finds Ferdinand’s presence a comfort? Even now Hubert can smell him pressed into his jacket, feel the phantom warmth of his embrace. </p>
<p>He could ask Ferdinand to join him for breakfast. That wouldn’t be too odd at this hour. He can’t think of a single time he’s invited the other man’s company. It generally appeared unannounced and remained present until satisfied, like one of the monastery cats yowling for attention. </p>
<p>Still, for all the time Hubert spends watching for flashes of red-gold hair, memorizing the cadence of Ferdinand’s voice, Ferdinand has never shown any sign of particularity when it comes to Hubert. He is as likely to spend time reading with Bernadetta or sparring with Caspar in the training room as he is to seek out Hubert, and he is more likely to come out of interactions with Hubert fuming.</p>
<p>If Hubert asks, Ferdinand will likely say yes, out of obligation to a troubled comrade if nothing else. It would be selfish to deny the man sleep to soothe his own unwelcome craving. </p>
<p>So instead Hubert nods. “It will be unpleasant to finish, but I will manage.” </p>
<p>“I do not mind staying,” Ferdinand is still very close. Hubert crosses his arms, an effective barrier.</p>
<p>“Your presence is an unnecessary distraction.”</p>
<p>Ferdinand winces, and though Hubert is sorry for it he doesn’t uncross his arms.</p>
<p>Better than him realizing that his fellow soldier is in love with him. It is something Hubert only allows himself to examine in rare, private moments, like a jewel from the Imperial collection only brought out on special occasions and under heavy guard.</p>
<p>No, a jewel is something beautiful. This is more a self-inflicted wound kept hidden, a scab he keeps scratching at to watch it bleed in disgust and fascination.</p>
<p>What would Ferdinand say, if he knew? Hubert has watched him with those brave enough to ask openly for his affections (and there had been more than a few pathetically smitten soldiers among the army; Hubert monitors any correspondence to the officers and has read confessional missives of both the saccharine and the eyebrow-raising variety). He has heard Ferdinand’s unfailingly kind deflections and assurances that he is flattered, that the person in question is surely delightful, that their true love is no doubt waiting but is not Ferdinand von Aegir. If Hubert ever found that particular look of gentle pity, those platitudes turned on him, he would simply request Edelgard take Aymr to his skull and end his misery.   </p>
<p>And yet it is almost physically suffocating to see Ferdinand with his lips pressed thin, clear hurt in his amber eyes. He should thank him, at least. Tell him that the time he spent here is not unappreciated, as long as there is a way to do it in a way that does not suggest Hubert appreciates him in particular, either.   </p>
<p>Before he can say anything, the door swings open.</p>
<p>Ferdinand reaches for the sword at his side, Hubert finds there is magic left to draw from his wrung out body. Ever soldiers, they will never take safety for granted again.</p>
<p>It’s Caspar, flushed and clutching the wood.</p>
<p>“An ambush?” Ferdinand asks, as Hubert says in the same breath “Lady Edelgard?”</p>
<p>Caspar shakes his head, gulping air, and Hubert wants to shake him.</p>
<p>“The professor, he manages finally. “The professor is back.”</p>
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